


Between the tip and the frog

by msraven



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: AU: Band, Alternate Universe, Backstory, Clint Needs a Hug, High School, Kidfic, M/M, Phil Needs a Hug, Poker, Presumed Dead, Road Trip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-30
Updated: 2013-04-23
Packaged: 2017-11-27 14:50:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/663245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msraven/pseuds/msraven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Music, like life, is a series of ups and downs - crescendos and decrescendos.  It's not the individual measures and notes that define the piece, but the experience of the whole that creates beauty.</p><p>A look at the events in Phil and Clint's lives that build them up, tear them down, and eventually make them whole.  </p><p>Musician AU for a <a href="http://trope-bingo.dreamwidth.org/">trope_bingo</a> extra.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Not that kind of bow

**Author's Note:**

> Formerly a stand-alone fic that was intended to be part of a series, but will now be a multi-chaptered work instead.
> 
> Chapter one previously posted by its chapter name.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is more to the action than pure mechanics, a need for Clint to reach a little deeper inside himself to really make it sing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: mentions of past physical/verbal abuse. (None actually occurs within the fic.)

Clint doesn’t mean to get caught. He’s supposed to stay in the shadows of the alley, but he is so cold and he can feel the warm air coming out of the bodega every time someone walks through the door. Clint doesn’t even have a coat on, just his old purple hoodie over his t-shirt - all of their money is tied up in whatever Trickshot and Barney are delivering upstairs and there wasn't anything left over to replace the coat Clint had grown out of. Clint’s job is to stay outside and throw a rock at the 3rd story window if anyone else goes into the building. Barney and Trick were only supposed to be inside a few minutes, but Clint can see the clock inside the bodega and he’s been standing in the cold for over an hour now. 

Another warm gust of air blows toward him and Clint doesn’t realize he’s inched out of the shadows until a hand grabs hold of his arm. Clint turns and freezes - it’s a cop.

“Hey kid. What are you doing out here by yourself?”

Clint can’t move even though Barney and Trick have taught him how to kick out and squirm out of an adult’s grasp. Clint _knows_ he’s supposed to try and run, but he can’t. The cold has left his mind and body feeling sluggish and all he can do is stare up at the police officer with wide, scared eyes.

“Hey, hey,” the cop says gently as he drops down to one knee and gives Clint a reassuring smile, “I didn’t mean to scare you. This isn’t a nice neighborhood. You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

The wind picks up again, cutting through Clint’s hoodie like it wasn’t there, and he can't hold back the shiver that wracks his whole body. The officer frowns in concern and Clint braces himself for a hit that never comes. Instead, he finds himself cocooned inside the cop’s jacket that is still warm from his body heat - almost hot to Clint’s chilled body. Before he can register what’s happening, Clint is being lifted into the cop’s arms.

“Jeez, you barely weigh anything,” the cop says with another frown. “How old are you, kid?”

“Eight,” Clint responds softly, but proudly. Clint can still remember his dad saying that he didn’t expect an idiot like Clint to see his seventh birthday. He’d been six at the time and hadn’t really understood, but every birthday since the car accident still feels like a small victory. 

The cop grimaces in a funny way and tightens his hold on Clint before walking off. Clint doesn’t know what else to do but duck his head and try to steal a little more warmth. He doesn’t see Trick and Barney walk out the front of the building, their eyes widening when they see Clint with the cop.

The walk to the squad car is short and the cop pauses for a long few seconds when they get there - the cop looking back and forth between the front and back seats. He eventually gives Clint another squeeze before settling him into the front passenger seat. 

“Just promise me you won’t touch anything, okay?” he asks and Clint nods in agreement. 

The cop starts the car and warm air starts to blast out of the vents. Clint bites his lip and looks questioningly at the cop.

“What?” he asks.

Clint slips his hands out from within the jacket, but keeps them close to his body. The cop looks at him in confusion before his face finally clears in understanding.

“Oh! Yeah, it’s okay to put your hands near the heater if you want to.”

Clint puts his hands as close to the vents as he can without actually touching them and grins at the cop as they begin to thaw out. 

The cop smiles back. “You’re a cute kid, you know that?”

Clint instinctively pulls his hands back in, ducks his head, and tries to make himself as small as possible. Barney never likes it when people notice Clint. He doesn’t see the cop’s eyes sadden in empathy before flaring in anger. He grips the steering wheel hard for a second, knuckles going white, before pulling away from the curb while muttering curses under his breath. 

It’s mostly the remembered kindness, along with the firm grip on his shoulder, that keeps Clint from bolting as soon as they step into the squad room. The cop walks him straight through and sets him up in the break room with an apple juice and a donut. Clint automatically breaks the donut in half, but the cop stops him before he can wrap it up to put in his pocket.

“Hey, no. You don’t have to do that. If you want more later, I’ll get you another one.” Clint continues to look between the donut half and the cop skeptically until a second whole donut is placed in front of him. “Here...just...please eat the whole thing, okay?”

Clint nods and waits until the cop’s back is turned to secret way two of the donut halves. 

“I need to make a phone call, but you stay here.” the officer orders and Clint nods again. “If you need anything, have someone ask for Officer Davies.” The cop starts to stand from his squat next to Clint, but then stops and holds out his hand. “I’m Mike, Mike Davies.”

Clint shakes the offered hand with a small smile. “Clint Barton.”

“Nice to meet you Clint. I’ll be back soon,” Mike promises.

Clint finishes his donut and juice. He sits quietly in the corner of the break room going unnoticed by everyone who comes and goes. Almost an hour has passed and Clint is debating on whether to ask someone for permission to use the bathroom when Mike comes back with a woman in tow. 

“Hey Clint,” Mike says in greeting before gesturing toward the woman. “This is my friend Deborah. Deb, this is Clint.”

Clint shakes the woman’s hand. “You’re from CPS,” he states calmly. 

Mike looks at Clint in shock, but Clint isn’t sure if it’s because of what he said or because he said anything at all. Clint gives him his best I’m-not-stupid look and it makes both the adults laugh a little.

“Yes, Clint,” Deborah says. “I’m from Child Protective Services.”

“Are you taking me to another orphanage?” Clint asks before realizing that he’s shared more than he should have. Something must show on his face because Mike and Deborah frown at each other, but they don’t press Clint to say anything more about the orphanage.

“Actually, no,” Deborah says with a smile so filled with kindness that Clint can’t help but smile back. “You’re coming home with me until we figure out if someone’s looking for you.”

She’s fishing for information - Clint really isn’t stupid - and Clint’s only response is a shrug. He may have gotten himself caught, but he’s not about to snitch on Barney and Trick. It wouldn’t take much for them to figure out what they were doing in that neighborhood and Clint likes his hide intact, thank you very much. The silence sits heavily for a minute until they realize Clint really doesn’t plan on saying anything. 

“We should probably go,” Deborah finally says.

“Can I use the bathroom first?” Clint asks. He doesn’t know how far they’re going, but he doesn’t think he could make it through a subway ride with his bladder as full as it is.

“Oh, yeah. Sorry kid,” Mike apologizes before showing Clint the bathroom down the hall.

They manage to produce a different jacket for Clint - it’s probably at least a size too big, but it smells new and Clint hesitates to take it. He looks up at Mike with wide eyes, who grunts and shrugs Clint’s arms into the jacket. 

“I’m gonna need my own back, kiddo,” the officer says gruffly and Clint is suddenly overcome with an unexpected impulse. He throws his arms around Mike’s neck, presses close, and squeezes. The large man freezes for a second before wrapping his own arms around Clint and hugging back. “You be good for Deb, okay Clint? I’ll come by in a few days to check on you.”

Clint nods against Mike’s neck before letting go. The officer ruffles Clint’s hair, blinking rapidly as he stands and Clint lets Deborah lead him away.

Deborah’s apartment is only a few blocks away from the precinct and they end up walking. Clint lets her hold his hand, figuring he’ll have plenty of opportunity to run away later. Plus he kind of promised Mike he’d be good. 

Clint is definitely not the first kid to stay with the CPS agent - she’s got plenty of spare clothes for Clint to wear - but Deborah doesn’t have many books for kids Clint’s age, so it doesn’t take long for him to get bored. He’s never been big into watching television, even on the rare opportunity he had one to watch, and it’s not like Clint has a bow for target practice. He’s sitting at the window seat sighting targets and imagining trajectories in his head when Deborah comes up to him.

“What kind of stuff do you like?” she asks.

“I like bows?” Clint responds and Deborah’s face splits into a grin. She goes into the other room and comes back with a violin. “Um...not that kind of bow. I meant bow as in bows and arrows.”

“Oh.” Deborah deflates for a second before perking back up and lifting the violin into position. “Well...since I already have it out, why don’t I show you how to play and then maybe you can give it a try?”

Clint shrugs. He watches closely as Deborah plays a rising set of notes up and then down again. She repeats it a few times, eyes looking questioningly at Clint’s intent gaze, before handing the violin to him. Clint puts the instrument up to his neck, in perfect mimicry of how she’d held it, and Deborah’s hands freeze a few inches away from where she had been about to position the violin for him. Clint’s gaze never wavers from her shocked eyes as he plays the notes up and down exactly as she had played it. 

Deborah beams at him. “How?”

“I dunno,” Clint shrugs. “I just...I’m good at copying people.”

“All you have to do is watch?” she asks and Clint nods. “How many times do you have see someone do something before you can mimic it?”

Clint files the word away in the back of his mind - it sounds better than copy. “Just once if I’m this close, but I can see pretty well from far away too.”

“Show me again,” Deborah requests, so Clint repeats the notes up and down. “It’s called a scale,” she explains, “D E F G A B C D. Can you play me F E D E F F F?”

Clint plays the notes she asks and smiles when he recognizes the song. He thinks for a second and plays the rest of it - E E E F A A F E D E F F F F E E F E D. Deborah claps and laughs, making Clint grin proudly in response. 

“Oh Clint!” Deborah exclaims. “You’re not just mimicking, you’re learning.”

Clint blushes and ducks his head, not used to praise being direct at him. He holds the violin and bow out to Deborah, but she pushes it back toward him.

“No, you keep it for a bit. Practice the scales and maybe we can go out tomorrow for some simple sheet music.”

Clint plays around with the violin for a few hours, systematically figuring out how to make certain notes and sounds emanate from the instrument. By late afternoon, Clint is confident enough to close his eyes and just play - a song he once heard on the radio and only remembers thinking it sounded pretty, but sad. He’s always been able to mimic people’s movements, but playing the violin feels a lot like the first time Trick handed him a bow and arrow. There is more to the action than pure mechanics, a need for Clint to reach a little deeper inside himself to really make it sing.

He opens his eyes to find Deborah watching him with a pleased smile. “Dinner’s ready.”

She doesn’t let him play any more that day, saying she’s worried about his fingers getting sore. Clint doesn’t tell her that he’s practiced much harder and longer with his other bow. They end up playing checkers until it’s time for Clint to sleep and he tries not to think too much about how nice it is for someone to care. He plays with the violin some more in the morning and then Mike comes over with lunch and a book for Clint. 

“The Hobbit,” Clint reads.

“Yeah,” Mike says. “Deb said you liked reading and one of the guys said his kid really liked the book. Consider it a thank you for leaving donuts in my jacket pockets.”

Clint opens his mouth to apologize, but Mike ruffles his hair with a laugh. “Don’t worry about it kid. They weren’t the first donuts to get smooshed in those pockets.”

“What’s a hobbit?” Clint asks to cover his embarrassment.

“Read the book and find out,” Mike suggests and Clint rolls his eyes, earning himself another hair ruffle from the officer.

Clint is reading in the living room when he overhears the adults talking about him.

“Any luck?” Deborah asks.

“No,” Mike responds. “If there was anyone with him at that bodega, they’re long gone and not looking for him.”

Clint really doesn’t know if the thought of Trick and Barney leaving him behind makes him happy or sad.

“How could they just abandon him in the cold?” Deborah asks, disgusted. “He’s such a great kid with so much potential. He’s _smart_ and you should have seen with the violin, Mike.”

“There are a lot of good kids out on the streets,” Mike points out.

“I know that. It’s my job to know that,” Deborah replies. “But Clint’s different - special.”

“Yeah,” Mike says with a sigh. “If I thought I could...but I can’t. Any chance they’d let you keep him?”

“No. They’re placing him with a foster family tomorrow.”

Clint stops listening then and starts trying to decide the best time to sneak out of the apartment that night. He starts planning out how many clothes and how much food he can take without feeling horribly guilty for stealing. He has everything worked out in his head by the time Mike leaves and, if he didn’t already know what was going on, Clint would have figured it out just by the look the officer gives him before walking out the door.

Deborah doesn’t spend any time beating around the bush. “I know you heard us and I know you’re thinking about running away,” she says just after the door clicks shut.

Clint doesn’t respond. He doesn’t flinch away when she squats down to his level and looks him in the eye.

“I’m not going to ask you not to run away,” Deborah says softly. “But I am going to ask you to think about staying. Not all foster homes are bad and I _promise_ I’ll keep an eye out for you.” She brushes a strand of hair off his forehead and it’s a fight for Clint not to lean into it. “I will do my best to make sure nothing bad happens to you.”

Clint bites his lip hard and looks down at the ground.

“Tomorrow,” she continues, “we’ll take you down to the office for you to get placed. I want you to take the violin as a gift from me.”

Clint raises his startled eyes back up to meet Deborah’s. “I can’t...”

“You can and you will,” she says with a fond smile. “I _want_ you to have it. I never played half as good as you anyway and...and maybe it will remind you that there are people in the world who care about you.”

Hot tears come unbidden to Clint’s eyes and he lets Deborah envelop him in a hug. “Promise me you’ll think about staying?” Clint nods mutely. “No matter what you decide, I want you to have the violin, okay?” Clint nods again and he feels Deborah take a deep breath and release it slowly. 

She holds Clint for a minute longer before leaning back, her own smile watery. “You can go back to reading, if you want.”

Clint goes back to sit by the window and feels the blood in his veins turn to ice. Standing outside, just in view of the window, are Trick and Barney. There’s something in Trick’s eyes that scares Clint in a way that he’s never felt before. He knows instinctively that it doesn’t bode well for Deborah and that the only way to protect her is to keep them away. Clint makes the hand signal for midnight and Trick nods, his mouth twisting into a grin that makes Clint shiver. 

At midnight, Clint is standing outside the apartment waiting for them. He accidentally knocks down a garbage can as he moves to greet them, making enough noise that a few of the first story windows light up.

“You clumsy idiot!” Trick scolds, grabbing Clint and shoving him down the street. Clint knows it’s going to earn him a beating whenever they stop, but he doesn’t care because it stopped Trick’s movement towards the apartment.

Clint runs down the street without looking back. He’s wearing the jacket that Mike gave him along with a backpack filled with a few spare clothes his size and the violin in its case. Upstairs on the window seat sits “The Hobbit” with a note tucked into its pages - _Thank You. I’m sorry. --Clint_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that I do not actually play the violin, so I apologize for any inaccuracies there. I know Clint wouldn't actually learn to play that fast and I'm using a fictional, innate talent for mimicry for my author hand-waving.


	2. Keeping your mind (and your ears) open

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil is less than six months away from freedom

_Many years later..._

Phil is less than six months away from freedom - four until he turns eighteen and six weeks after that, he graduates from high school. Less than six months to go and then Phil can change his name back to Coulson, enlist in the army, and forget that he was ever a snotty rich kid stuck at the best boarding school in the country. He honestly doesn’t care what his stepfather does with all the money. Now that his mom is gone, Phil can disappear with a clear conscience. 

“Oh! Um...hi,” a tentative voice says and Phil sighs before turning to face the new kid he’s being forced to live with. Six months, Phil tells himself, just six more months.

The kid, however, is a surprise. He’s a few inches shorter than Phil and skinny, wearing non-designer clothes, and is only carrying one large duffel that is slung across his chest. Despite the kid’s lankiness, Phil can see from where the strap of the duffel pulls his already tight t-shirt tighter, that he has a surprisingly muscular chest and shoulders. Phil can only hope that they didn’t saddle him with a brainless jock.

“They...uh...said this was my room,” the kid says without stepping into the room.

“Yeah,” Phil responds, motioning to the other bed in the room. “That’s your side.”

The kid finally steps into the room and drops his duffel onto the bed. “Thanks. I’m Francis...um...Frank Chisholm,” he says, holding out his hand.

Phil just looks at the hand and then back up at Frank. “I’m Phil Casper and we’re not going to be friends. Just leave me and my stuff alone and we’ll get along fine, okay?”

Frank deflates and Phil almost feels bad for being such an asshole, but the last thing he needs is some sophomore following him around. He turns his back on the kid and goes back to writing his essay, surprised when Frank doesn’t fire back with any snide comments. Phil can hear Frank unpacking behind him and then there’s only the sound of Phil’s keystrokes. Surprised and curious, Phil looks over and sees that Frank is asleep with his back to Phil. It’s warm in the room, so Frank has only pulled his blanket up to his hips and Phil takes a moment to admire the well-defined muscles of his back. The kid must spend hours in the gym to get muscles like that - definitely a jock.

~*~*~*~*~

Frank continues to surprise Phil - it’s disconcerting.

For one, Frank doesn’t use the gym. He gets up before dawn every morning, goes for a run, and comes back into the room as Phil is getting dressed to do an amazing number of situps and pushups. One morning, Phil glances out the window and catches Frank doing pullups on a tree branch. It’s as if Frank isn’t used to having real workout facilities, which seems odd for a family who can afford to send their kid to this school. Whatever it is that Frank is training for, Phil has to admire his work ethic and its results. 

Frank also isn’t a spoiled brat. Phil has gotten accustomed to nearly everyone at this school being stereotypical rich kids - used to lives of material excess, but lacking in any real affection. There are exceptions, Phil knows, but most of the kids have learned through a lifetime of example that nothing gets them attention faster than being loud and obnoxious. Frank is nothing like the other kids. He’s quiet and reserved and has this endearing, almost charming, way of ducking his head and looking at people bashfully through his over-long bangs. The one time that Phil had heard Frank laugh, he’d been in the common room watching television as Phil had walked by. Frank had cut off his bark of laughter when it had barely begun and looked around the empty room as if he was worried about getting caught.

Frank doesn’t try to make friends. He keeps to himself and barely acknowledges the interest he gets from boys and girls alike. From what Phil can tell, Frank _wants_ to spend most of his time in their room actually studying. 

“They moved me up to Pre-Calculus!” Frank says excitedly as he bursts into their room one afternoon.

Phil is caught off-guard by the genuinely happy grin on Frank’s face and doesn’t respond. Before Phil can recover, Frank ducks his head, mumbles an apology, and shuffles quietly to his side of the room. Phil thinks it will only embarrass the kid further if he says anything now, so he keeps quiet, but sneaks a look at Frank out of the corner of his eye. Frank is sitting on his bed, beaming happily at the textbook on his lap as he flips through its pages. Phil has never seen anyone this excited about _math_.

Later that week, there’s a soft cough behind Phil and he turns to give Frank his full attention since this is only the second time Frank has spoken to him following their not-so-friendly first meeting.

“Um...” Franks starts, looking at Phil from under his hair, which should technically be impossible since he’s standing and Phil is sitting down. “I was hoping you could tell me who I can talk to about joining the band.”

“What instrument do you play?” Phil asks.

“The violin,” Frank responds and motions toward where a violin case is sitting on his bed. “Um...it’s kind of why I’m here. Because we were told the school had a good band program.”

“It’s called orchestra,” Phil corrects, not realizing how elitist he sounds. “ _You_ play the violin?”

“Yeah,” Franks fires back defensively. “You know what - nevermind. I’ll figure it out myself.”

“Fuck, wait!,” Phil calls out. He’s not sure what it is about this kid that turns him into such an asshole. “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be a dick about it. I can introduce you to Mr. Bixby. I’m the first chair cello.”

Frank narrows his eyes at Phil in suspicion. “You serious?”

“Yeah,” Phil responds. “And this is going to sound like my being a dick again, but are you any good? Because the violins are pretty competitive.” 

Frank shrugs. “I’m okay. I don’t play much with other people, but like I said, it’s why I’m here.”

Phil learns two days later that Frank has a tendency to downplay his capabilities.

Mr. Bixby smiles indulgently when Phil introduces Frank, but then Frank starts to play Massenet’s Meditation and the instructor’s eyes widen before he jogs over to the piano to play the accompaniment. Phil can’t tear his eyes away from Frank, who has his eyes closed and is swaying slightly as he plays. The music flowing out of the violin seems to pierce right through Phil’s heart and, as the last notes fade, Phil wonders if this is what falling in love feels like.

“That was wonderful!” Mr. Bixby says gleefully. “We’d love to have you join us.”

“Um...” Frank says with a blush and rubs the back of his neck. “I’m not that great at reading sheet music.”

“Oh! A natural, then,” Mr. Bixby exclaims happily. “I’m sure we could find you a tutor for the sheet music.”

“I can help him,” Phil volunteers. Frank looks over with a combination of surprise, suspicion, and appreciation warring on his face.

“Excellent!” Mr. Bixby says with a clap of his hands. “Thank you, Phillip. Can you also help Francis get his class schedule adjusted on Monday? I assume you’ll bring him along to rehearsal. Delightful, absolutely delightful.”

Mr. Bixby has already started wandering back toward his messy office, so Phil motions for Frank to pack up and follow him out.

“Were you just messing with me in there? Or are you really willing to help me out?” Frank asks once they’re outside.

Phil stops walking and turns to Frank. It’s the first time since he moved in that Frank has really looked Phil in the eye and Phil’s breath stutters a little in response. Frank’s eyes are a kaleidoscope of colors that Phil finds absolutely mesmerizing. The eyes narrow when Phil doesn’t respond right away and Phil mentally prods himself to speak.

“I was serious,” Phil says. “I want to help...really.”

Frank still doesn’t look like he quite believes Phil, so Phil sticks out his hand. “Look. I’m sorry I’ve been such a jerk. Let’s start over, okay? I’m Phil. It’s nice to meet you.”

Frank looks down at Phil’s hand and Phil holds his breath, but Frank proves to be forgiving and eventually returns the handshake. “I’m Frank. You should come hang out sometime. My roommate’s kind of an ass, but I think he’s in therapy for it.”

Phil laughs as Frank grins - six months isn’t looking so bad after all.

~*~*~*~*~

Frank really can’t read sheet music much at all, but he’s a quick study and has an awesome ear, so it doesn’t take much time for him to catch up with the rest of the orchestra as they rehearse for the fundraising gala at the Osborn mansion. Frank somehow manages to charm the other violinists into welcoming him into their fold and Phil starts inviting him to hang out with his small cluster of friends. Frank seems to finally be adjusting to life at the school, so it’s just Phil who now has a problem.

Phil’s problem is that he’s crushing hard for his sixteen year old roommate. It seems really stupid and silly when he thinks about it, but Phil hasn’t seen Frank the same way since he first watched him play the violin in the music room. Frank has never been shy about walking around half naked or mostly naked and Phil will readily admit that he’s always found the violinist’s body aesthetically pleasing. Everything pales in comparison to how much his fingers now itch to touch all that glorious skin. 

Phil has long ago come to terms with the fact that he’s attracted to both girls and boys. His first kisses had been with a girl and his first sexual encounter had been with a boy. Phil doesn’t advertise it - he lives at a rich kids’ boarding school and plans to enlist in the army, neither of which look kindly on that sort of thing. Phil has also learned that it takes more than a good looking girl or boy to turn him on. He has to genuinely enjoy being around that person before Phil registers any sort of physical attraction.

Frank seems to be the embodiment of everything Phil has ever wished for in a partner. He’s smart, has a quirky sense of humor, and can play the violin so beautifully that it could make angels weep. The slim, muscled body doesn’t hurt either and Phil spends a lot of time imagining how Frank would look years down the road as his body matures. 

Phil tells himself over and over to get a grip - that he doesn’t even know if Frank is into boys or girls or both or neither. Frank seems genuinely happy to have a friend and the last thing the kid needs is for Phil to fuck it up by making a pass at him. Phil shoves his feelings into the back corner of his mind and thinks he’s succeeding until a week before the fundraiser. 

Phil heads to the library early in the morning, passing Frank on the way in from his jog, and gets all the way to the library steps before Phil realizes that he left his notes back in the room. He trudges back to the dorm, throws open the door, and stops in his tracks. Frank is standing in the middle of the room in just his boxer briefs, hair still damp from his shower, and playing his violin. Phil goes instantly hard in his pants.

“Oh hey, Phil!” Frank turns and greets him. “I think I finally got that one bit with...uh...you okay?”

Phil can only blame his teenage hormones for not being able to stop himself from letting his gaze roam greedily over the length of Frank’s body. 

“Oh,” Frank says softly and Phil’s eyes finally reach his face to find him looking up at Phil in a decidedly unbashful way. “You should have said something.”

“Wait! You...really? Are you?” Phil stammers out and Frank gives him a slow smile that snaps what little is left of Phil’s self control. 

Phil slams the door behind him and stalks toward Frank, stopping inches away from the sixteen year old. “I’m going to kiss you now, so if you have --”

“You talk too much,” Frank interrupts, grabs Phil by the front of his shirt, and hauls him in for a kiss.

The kiss is messy, frantic, and hot in a way that only teenage hormones can make them. Phil finally gets his hands on Frank, fingers groping at the chiseled muscles of his back. He trails his hands down to Frank’s waist, deepening the kiss, and grinding their hips together. Frank pulls away to arch his neck back with groan and Phil bends down to lick at his pulse point. 

“Jesus, Phil,” Frank says breathlessly. “I want...”

“What? What do you want?” Phil asks, just as breathless. 

“You,” Frank responds and Phil maneuvers them until Frank’s legs hit the bed suddenly, causing him to fall backward onto the mattress. 

Phil pulls of his shirt and manages to get his pants unzipped before Frank sits up and licks experimentally at one of Phil’s nipples. The shockingly good sensation pitches Phil forward and Frank takes advantage of their new position to kiss Phil again. Phil allows himself to lay fully on top of Frank, losing himself in the feel of fingers gripping skin, tongues dancing together, and all the delicious friction that soon has them both going over the edge.

Still out of breath, Phil pushes himself up off Frank and makes a face at the sticky mess they’ve made. Frank laughs in response - a happy, carefree sound that makes Phil’s heart swell. He finds himself laughing along and letting Frank pull him back down into the mess for a hug. 

Phil tries not to think about how he only has less than five months left.

~*~*~*~*~

By the night of the fundraiser gala, Phil is floating on cloud nine. Being with Frank is amazing on every level. They haven’t gone much further than the first time - only adding mutual handjobs so far - focused more on learning each other’s bodies and taking their time to figure out what feels good. Frank is amazingly affectionate, even if they agree to keep most of it behind the closed door of their room, and Phil is quickly becoming addicted to all the small touches Frank bestows on him.

They’ve talked a lot too, sharing everything from their dreams for the future to their favorite comic superheroes - Frank debates strongly in favor of Captain America while Phil stays firmly in the camp of Batman. Phil tells Frank about his plans for after graduation and they both go quiet for a long time, eventually falling asleep curled together on Phil’s bed. Frank is reluctant to say anything about his own life, but Phil knows that his uncle will be at the fundraiser and wonders if Frank plans on introducing them. 

The orchestra finishes their performance and Phil packs up his cello before turning to look for Frank. He’s surprised to find Frank’s violin case sitting by itself on his chair - Frank rarely lets the thing out of his sight. Phil scans the room and just catches a glimpse of Frank being pulled out onto the balcony that surrounds the house. He follows with a frown, not liking the look of how the older man is gripping Frank’s arm - uncle or no. 

Phil gets to the balcony doors and hears Frank’s raised voice. “I’m not going back, Trick! It’s not my fault you guys fucked up. I did my part.”

“What? You think you’re staying here with all the rich kids?” another voice sneers. “How you planning on paying for it?”

“I’ll find a way,” Frank fires back. “Phil will help. I know he’ll --”

“Phil? Who the fuck is that?” asks the other voice. “Is that you _boyfriend_? He’s not going to do shit once he finds out you lied. Does he even know your name’s not Frank?”

Before Phil can move from where he’s frozen by the doors, there are several more raised voices and the sounds of pounding feet converging on the balcony. 

“Stop! Don’t move! We’ve called the police!”

Phil thinks he hears gunshots and runs out onto the balcony, the fear for Frank’s safety overriding everything else. He follows the swarm of black suits, struggling to find Frank in the melee. Phil gets to the stairs leading down from the balcony and sees the man throw Frank into the back of a waiting car. The car speeds off into the falling rain, followed quickly by Osborn’s security team. Phil watches in shock as all the cars speed off and a group of police cars come around the side of the house to add to the chase.

“Phillip! What’s going on?”

Phil spins around, relieved when he sees Mr. Bixby standing just behind him. “Mr. Bixby! They have Frank. I know you have your car here. We have to go,” Phil says in a rush. “Frank’s in trouble and we need to go. _Please_ , Mr. Bixby.” 

The music instructor stares at him for a second before he turns and starts walking back into the house. “Come on then. My keys are inside.”

Phil follows while Mr. Bixby finds his keys, automatically grabbing Frank’s violin case to keep it safe as they run out to the car. He points to where the cars sped off and Mr. Bixby takes off as fast as the car can go. Phil grips the door handle as the car swerves around the windy road, a feeling of dread settling in the pit of his stomach. The feeling threatens to choke him as they come upon the group of cars scattered at the side of road, the sound of the raging river almost deafening as they stop and get out the car. 

“Stay here,” Mr. Bixby orders and Phil stays by the front of the car, barely noticing the heavy rain that’s falling. He watches as Mr. Bixby talks to one of the police officers before turning to walk back to Phil.

“The car went into the river,” Mr. Bixby tells him. “They have people downstream and there’s a tow truck on the way. They...they don’t think there’s much chance anyone survived, but there’s always hope.”

Mr. Bixby stays standing with Phil in the pouring rain until the tow truck shows up and they stay until other squad cars come up from downriver. Eventually, one of the officers walks over, but Phil doesn’t hear anything the officer says - the shake of his head and the sorrow in his eyes is enough to tell Phil everything he needs. 

Mr. Bixby bundles Phil back into the car with a last, supportive grip on his shoulder before shutting the door. As the instructor walks around the car to the driver’s side, Phil reaches down to grab Frank’s violin case from the floor. The violin case feels warm against Phil's chilled skin as he hugs it to his chest. 

Frank - if that was really his name - is gone and Phil can't help wondering if he's the only left to care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What Frank plays for Phil and Mr. Bixby: [Massenet Meditation](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mXuzLRVi6qk)


	3. Memories at the tip of your mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil kissed him then and Clint felt his heart take flight. Phil’s touch was _right_ , almost familiar, as if he already knew all the ways to make Clint writhe with pleasure. Their first night together was better than Clint could have imagined and it only got better from there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Mentions of attempted non-con. Nothing graphic, but please be aware.
> 
> If you haven't already noticed, I have played with Clint and Phil's ages a bit relative to canon to fit within this AU. While there is no specified age difference between them in canon, they are much closer in age here than we're typically led to believe.

All Clint remembers is cold and fear. He wakes back at the circus a week later, drenched in a fevered sweat and missing months of his life - his memories washed away by the icy river along with his treasured violin. 

The loss of the violin changes him, much like gaining it had changed him all those years ago. As Clint had run away from Deborah’s apartment that morning with the violin tucked safely into his backpack, he’d learned two valuable lessons: that there was a difference between taking care of someone and caring about them, and that he had value to Trick and Barney outside of being just another mouth to feed. Out of ideas and money, Trick had taken them back to the circus and Clint became their breadwinner, headlining first as The Youngest and then The World's Greatest Marksman. Clint had learned to stand his ground when it mattered - playing the violin and continuing his education became his top priorities - and he swore never to be a part of Trick and Barney’s schemes ever again.

Clint doesn’t know what Trick promised to get him to cooperate. He doesn’t know why he’s filled with a sense of profound loss that not even the disappearance of his violin can explain. Clint’s mind cannot remember the events, but his heart grieves all the same. His soul aches for the sense of comfort, safety, and joy - a feeling that is both unfamiliar and unforgettable - that is just beyond the reach of his consciousness. He dreams of strong arms, fervent kisses, and gentle smiles, waking to grasp unsuccessfully at a name on the tip of his mind, on the tip of his tongue. 

Barney tells him nothing - only that Trick is dead and that Clint is safer not knowing.

It is not until two decades later, as Clint looks down at another raging river, that he realizes that was the moment he stopped trusting his brother. Barney must have seen it, even if Clint could not, but the archer’s wariness does not prevent another betrayal. Clint is surprised that he feels no bitterness toward his brother any longer, because Barney’s abandonment and Clint’s injuries had forced him out of the circus and led him to the Army, to striking out on his own, and now to SHIELD.

“Barton!” yells a familiar voice, forcing Clint to turn away from the river and his musings. Coulson is standing by the purposely nondescript Acura with a dark scowl on his face. “Let’s get a move on!” he prods loudly to be heard over the rain.

Clint jogs back to the car and jumps into the passenger seat, running a hand through his rain-soaked hair. “What put a burr up your butt?” he asks as he fastens his seat belt.

“I fucking hate standing in the rain,” Coulson complains. “I’ve had more than my fill of it on this trip without you adding to it.”

Clint is about to retort with another snarky comment, but stops when he hears an abnormal catch in Phil’s voice. The archer places his hand over the senior agent’s where it sits on the gear shift and waits until the tension bleeds from Phil’s shoulders before giving his hand a squeeze. 

“I’m sorry,” Phil apologizes and Clint releases his hand so Phil can put the car into gear.

“Not a problem,” Clint responds. He doesn’t press the issue, he doesn’t need to. They both have enough bad memories to share when they’re willing - there’s no point in scratching at old wounds that don’t need to be reopened. 

The drive from New Mexico to New York should take a little over thirty hours if driven directly. Fury has given Clint and Phil three days to get the prototype vehicle back to SHIELD’s New York headquarters. It’s the closest thing the two agents will get to an apology from the director for ruining their previously planned vacation. 

Clint leans back in his seat and lets himself be soothed by the music from the radio and Phil’s fingers drumming a steady rhythm on the steering wheel. 

Clint's thoughts, still churning like the river they've left behind, can't help but stray to the other man in the car. Their relationship has been both surprising and inevitable. From the moment the suit had offered Clint a hand up off the dirty floor of the alley and supported most of the archer's weight as they stumbled toward the SHIELD extraction vehicle, Clint had known he could trust Coulson. There was no logic behind this belief, but Phil has never once betrayed Clint's trust in him. It didn't take long for that trust to become friendship and for that friendship to turn into something stronger, something too precious for either of them to dare name in fear of it being taken away. 

Their partnership is one of many badly guarded secrets at SHIELD. Half of the population scoffs that they're nothing but fuck buddies while the rest spin fairy tales of their passionate love affair. The truth is somewhere in the middle, but nobody doubts their unwavering dedication to one another. Even Natasha, whom both men are fiercely protective of, can often be caught looking at them with envy and longing. 

"Penny for your thoughts?" Phil requests, breaking into Clint's internal musings. 

"You know I don't come that cheap," Clint replies with a smirk as he reaches for the radio controls. "How long until you're willing to stop for the night?"

"We have a reservation at a hotel about three hours out. Nothing but crappy motels in between," Phil answers and Clint laughs. "What?"

"Only you would find time to make hotel reservations in between fighting Norse gods and giant robots," Clint says fondly, giving up on the radio and reaching for his MP3 player instead. Phil looks over with a smile as Schubert’s Quartettsatz begins to play through the speakers. 

“Didn’t feel like sleeping in a crappy motel room for old time’s sake?” Clint teases after Phil has turned his eyes back to the road. The other agent’s scowl loses none of its displeasure in profile.

“There was nothing on that op, aside from you, that I’d want to reminisce about,” Phil responds and Clint tries to hide his blush by looking out the window - Coulson sees it anyway. “And if we’re going to have sex for the first time in months, I prefer you fuck me into the nicest mattress I can find.”

"Always such a romantic, Coulson," Clint says, knowing that Phil can hear the affection in his voice despite the sarcasm.

“I try,” Phil replies dryly and Clint laughs again, letting his mind drift in the quiet comfort of the car.

~*~*~*~*~

The mission had been to find and dismantle a sex slavery ring that was operating out of the Midwest. Phil and Clint were sent undercover to ascertain where the ring was keeping their “stock”, with Clint playing the victim and Phil the older cousin out to make some money at the expense of an unsuspecting relative. While Clint and Phil were only a few years apart, Clint had a way of making himself look incredibly young just by changing how he carried himself - a hunch of his shoulders combined with wide, scared eyes suddenly had people overlooking the width of his shoulders and muscular arms. Clint had, over the years, fooled more than one seasoned SHIELD agent, so the slavers were easy in comparison.

What they hadn't counted on was the amount of time it would take to release the other victims. They wanted the innocents out of the building, knowing that any attempt at arrests would likely result in a firefight. Phil had no choice but to let Clint be led into a back room to be “sampled” in order to give the extraction team more time. Clint resisted - struggling enough to add to the delay, but not enough to break his cover. He begged for help from his cousin, while trying to convey to Coulson with his eyes that he’d be okay.

It mostly worked. The slaver didn’t have time to do more than tear apart Clint's already tattered clothing and grope at him hard enough to leave bruises, but the ordeal still left Clint shaky and caused Phil’s eyes to flash with more than professional satisfaction as he'd shot out both of the slaver's kneecaps, who’d been dumb enough to go for a gun. Clint pulled on the pants Phil had scrounged up and toughed it out through the rest of the cleanup. If Clint’s hands shook when he accepted the clothing and he scrubbed extra hard at his skin in the shower back at the motel, only Phil would know. 

Clint finally emerged from his extended shower to find Phil sitting on one of the beds and staring at his hands. 

"I'm sorry," Phil said, voice filled with self-loathing. "We... _I_ should never have put you into a position for that to happen."

"Nothing really happened," Clint responded, sitting next to Phil and now more concerned about his handler's - his friend’s - reaction over his own. 

" _Enough_ happened for it to be wrong, Clint!" Phil fired back, looking up with fierce eyes. "If I hadn't --"

"But you did," Clint reminded him, "and I wouldn't have let it get too far. You know that."

"I do know that. It's just..." Phil trailed off and looked back down at his hands 

"Just what?" Clint asked gently. 

"The idea of anyone else touching you, let alone that monster...I wanted to tear him apart with my bare hands," Phil confessed and the sudden clarity left Clint temporarily speechless.

Casual sex between SHIELD agents was more common than Clint had expected when he'd joined. Considering the nature of their jobs, the agents seeking comfort inward was not the surprise, but the casualness of it had always confused the archer. When you could die or be seriously injured at any moment of any day, why would you choose an emotionless relationship? Clint had abstained from all the other agents’ extracurricular activities, more than content with the platonic relationship he had with his handler, and never realizing, until that moment, that it did not need to be purely platonic.

“Then show me,” Clint whispered, gathering his courage. “Show me how I should be touched.”

Phil’s eyes darkened, but he made no move to close the distance between them. “Clint...I can’t. This can’t be just sex...not with you.”

“Good,” Clint responded, hope and fear and desire all conveyed in a single syllable.

Phil kissed him then and Clint felt his heart take flight. Phil’s touch was _right_ , almost familiar, as if he already knew all the ways to make Clint writhe with pleasure. Their first night together was better than Clint could have imagined and it only got better from there.

~*~*~*~*~

Clint doesn’t realize he’s drifted all the way into sleep until Phil is shaking his shoulder in the hotel parking lot. They make it up to their room and Clint reels Phil in for a lengthy kiss before the door has finished clicking shut behind them.

“What was that you said about fucking you into the mattress?” Clint asks, but Phil plants his feet to keep the archer from dragging them toward the bed.

“I appreciate your enthusiasm," Phil says, "but I'm hungry, which I know means you're starving."

"You may have a point," Clint concedes when his stomach growls at the thought of food. "Dinner first means more energy for after."

Clint waggles his eyebrows in an exaggerated leer, causing Phil to roll his eyes. 

"You're incorrigible," Phil's complains fondly. 

"You like that about me," Clint reminds him. 

Phil's hum is noncommittal, but his eyes say otherwise. Clint grins and opens the door with a flourish. "Let's see what this town has for haute cuisine."

They end up a small bistro for dinner. Despite his complaints, Clint enjoys these little glimpses of normalcy in their otherwise crazy lives. They spend a leisurely few hours at dinner, enjoying the conversation and each other's company, before strolling slowly back to the hotel. About halfway back, something in a store window catches Clint’s eye and he drags a bemused Phil into an antique shop. Thirty minutes later, he’s dragging a now shell-shocked Phil back out of the store.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Phil protests.

“I know,” Clint responds, using a hand on Phil’s elbow to keep them walking in the direction of the hotel. 

“There are others still out there,” Phil continues. “Just because we happened to find it here didn’t mean you had to spend that much.”

“I know,” Clint says again.

“You really didn’t have to --”

“Phil!” Clint stops walking and turns to face his handler, motioning at the box Phil is holding gently, but firmly in his hand. “Is that or is that not a near-mint condition Captain America trading card _and_ the only card you don’t have in your collection?”

“I’m not an expert...” Phil starts and Clint narrows his eyes dangerously. “I’m not an expert, but yes, it looks authentic with only a little foxing on the edges. And yes, it’s the last card I’m missing from my collection.”

“Good. Now repeat after me,” Clint directs, “thank you for my present, Clint.”

“Thank you for my present, Clint,” Phil repeats and gives him a dazzling smile - the kind that always leaves Clint a little weak in the knees. Clint would buy a thousand cards at twice the price he just paid for a single one of Phil’s rare, open smiles.

“How about we get back to that mattress and you can show me just how thankful you are?” Clint smirks to hide his inner sappiness.

Phil only smiles knowingly and leads them back to the hotel.

Sex that night, like the rest of their evening, is slow and savored for every moment of peace they are being granted. They linger over each kiss and take their time to appreciate every sensation and reaction they draw out of one another. Both of them are content to ignore, for now, the chaos of their usual lives and the danger they fear is looming ahead. 

Clint can’t help thinking back to their first night together in that seedy motel and finds himself spending a little more time touching and tasting every part of Phil - trying to express without words how grateful he is to have this, to have Phil. When Clint finally lets himself sink into Phil’s warmth and meets his gaze, he’s surprised to find the same message conveyed in Phil’s blue-grey eyes. Phil smiles at his surprise, wraps his arms around the archer, and pulls him down for a kiss. 

Clint’s heart takes flight and soars.

~*~*~*~*~

A year later, Clint’s heart comes back to life along with a shuddering, pain-filled breath.

A year later, Clint’s frozen heart is recovered, only to be shattered by the worst news imaginable.

A year later, Clint’s heart stands still as he is forced to destroy everything he holds dear.

A year later, Clint’s heart struggles in vain against the ice that surrounds it. 

A year later, Clint’s heart draws the attention of the God of Mischief, who uses it to strip him bare. He no longer feels, but he remembers.


	4. Perdendo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Perdendo - losing volume, fading into nothing, dying away

Phil never stops loving Frank Chisholm. Nobody ever forgets their first love, but the added tragedy makes it that much more poignant and Phil vows that he will always remember that Frank existed, that he mattered.

It helps at the beginning. Phil moves forward with his plan and joins the Army, quickly earning himself a place among the Rangers. DADT isn’t a problem because the idea of being with another man, being with anyone, still feels like a betrayal. 

Time, as it does with all things, eventually dulls the sharp edge of the pain. The details start to fade and Phil wishes he had at least one picture of Frank in addition to the old violin that Phil keeps safely in storage next to his cello. He wonders, more than once, what would have happened if Frank had not died that day. Would they have eventually drifted apart, unable to sustain the all-consuming passion of youth? Could Phil have been the man Frank put his confidence in? There is no way to know the first, but Phil does his best to live up to the second.

Phil has an exemplary career with the Rangers before Fury convinces him to join SHIELD. He dates and even tries a relationship or two, but quickly realizes that very few people are understanding enough to deal with what Phil’s job demands. He gets propositioned by other agents regularly, men and women alike, but Phil has never believed that sex comes string-free and if it is, it’s not what he wants. He continues to date off and on, but it never bothers him when none of them last much beyond the first canceled date. Phil’s thinks he’s content - he loves his job, has good friends, and sex has never been that important to him - but fate has other plans.

~*~*~*~*~

On a cold and rainy day in Montreal, Phil meets Clint Barton. SHIELD’s mission is pure reconnaissance - their orders very clearly state not to interfere with the drug dealer who may or may not be connected to Hydra. Phil clenches his jaw and curls his hands into fists as his team watches the dealer and his goons corner a young girl into a dirty alley.

“We can’t just do nothing,” Sitwell whispers fiercely.

“We have our orders,” Phil responds calmly, even has his stomach churns in horror at what they’re about to witness. 

The girl’s back hits the wall at the end of the alley and Phil decides that they really can’t do nothing. He picks up one of the burner phone and Jasper lets out a relieved sigh. Before Phil can press any of the keys, three of dealer’s goons drop to the ground, each of them clawing useless against the arrows now impaled in their necks. 

“Jesus! It’s Hawkeye,” Sitwell exclaims unnecessarily. SHIELD has been attempting - and failing - to bring the elusive archer in for over a year. Every agent has standing orders to take him down by any means necessary. Orders which now supersedes their mission to watch the dealer. 

“Hold your fire,” Phil orders and watches as the scene unfolds before him.

The last of the four goons fires wildly around the alley while the dealer screams at him to stop and the girl drops to the floor, covering her head with her arms and screaming as bullets ricochet in the tight space of the alley. A fourth arrow sings through the air and the last goon falls, with all but the fletching now embedded in his eye socket. The dealer attempts to run, but flies backward before he can take more than a step, eyes comically wide as he stares down at the arrow jutting out of his chest and pinning him to the wall. He flails once, twice, and then silence descends in the alley.

“Holy shit,” says Carter, the SHIELD sniper, in awe. 

The SHIELD microphones on scene are just good enough to pick up the girl’s whimpers as she huddles on the floor. Phil watches in fascination as a shadow, previously indistinguishable from the others in the darkened alley, moves and crouches next to the girl. This is the closest that anyone in SHIELD has ever gotten to Hawkeye.

“Take this and run,” Phil hears him whisper to the girl. “Get as far away from here as you can and start over. Everyone deserves a second chance. Don’t fuck it up by looking back. Now go!”

Hawkeye stands and yanks the girl up with him, pushing her roughly toward the mouth of alley. As she stumbles out into the light, Phil can see that she has a sizable wad of cash clutched tightly in her hand. He looks back toward the alley and sees Hawkeye stumble against the wall and slide down to the floor.

“I’ve got him in my sights,” Carter says hesitantly. “Orders, sir?”

“Everyone stand down and pack up,” Phil responds. “We’re done here. Sitwell, make sure there’s a med team at the extraction site.”

Phil pulls off his headset and stands to leave the surveillance van, Jasper’s voice making him still at the door. “Hawkeye is an extremely dangerous and vicious criminal, an assassin that just blew our op. He’ll probably try and kill you.”

Phil raises an eyebrow at Jasper’s bland, unconvincing delivery and the agent shrugs. “Had to be said. Just don’t get pissy at me later when I offer to shake his hand for recognizing scum when he kills it.”

Sitwell turns away to call the extraction team as Phil jumps out of the van and strides quickly to the alley. Hawkeye doesn’t move, doesn’t go for his weapon, only watches Phil approach him with tired eyes. 

“Just make it quick,” Hawkeye says and taps the center of his forehead. Phil can see in the dim light of alley that there’s blood in his mouth. 

“I’m not here to kill you,” Phil assures him and crouches down next to the archer. The movement allows more light to fall on Hawkeye’s face and suddenly Phil isn’t seeing the assassin - he sees Frank looking at him with eyes full hope, yet tempered by a lifetime of wariness. A surge of protectiveness almost knocks Phil over and he has to mentally shake himself to get his mind back in the game. Hawkeye isn’t Frank, Phil tells himself, but the protective instinct doesn’t fade. 

“Why?” Hawkeye whispers.

“Because everyone deserves a second chance,” Phil answers, “and this is yours.”

Hawkeye continues to look at Phil warily. “I can still kill you,” he finally says. “Even like this.”

“I know,” Phil acknowledges. “Hawkeye would. But I don’t think the man who just saved a scared young girl will.”

Phil and the archer consider each other for another minute before Hawkeye slowly stretches out a hand. “Clint Barton.”

“Phil Coulson,” Phil replies, using the hand Clint gives him to help him to his feet. Phil can feel blood seeping into his suit as he slings the former assassin’s arm around his shoulders and starts to slowly move them toward the waiting van.

Jasper, along with the rest of the team, does make a point of shaking Clint’s hand as the med team straps him down to a stretcher for transport back to SHIELD HQ. Fury yells at Phil for a solid three hours while Hawkeye is in surgery. The director doesn’t really wind down until Clint groggily relays valuable information about the dealer’s connection to Hydra - the assassin had been watching him for much longer than SHIELD. Phil barely manages to contain a smug smirk as he stands beside Hawkeye’s bed and takes notes.

Fury offers Phil the job of being Clint’s handler and he refuses. “I want a partner, not an asset,” Phil tells him. Fury narrows his eyes, clearly not willing to trust the archer so quickly, but knows better than to second guess Phil.

~*~*~*~*~

Working with Barton is a challenge. He is amazing and frustrating in equal portions. Hawkeye’s skill with any weapon, including his own body, is awe-inspiring. His complete disregard for his own safety during his quest to fulfill the mission objectives leaves Phil pulling at what remains of his already receding hairline. They argue often and loudly that SHIELD doesn’t believe Hawkeye is expendable, but it’s not until Phil reaches the end of his tether and finally admits to Clint that his last stunt scared the hell out of Phil, that the archer relents. The heroics don’t stop, Clint is still Clint after all, but at least now the worst is limited to when he believes Phil is in direct danger.

A little over a year after Clint joins SHIELD, there is an eerily similar turn of events that results in SHIELD recruiting the Black Widow. Phil can’t help but worry, as he watches the easy rapport between Clint and Natasha, if he’s about to lose his partner. He doesn’t. They can’t run every mission together, but they’re together more often than not and Phil realizes too late that his feelings toward his partner go much further than friendship.

There are still moments when Clint’s laugh or the way he bites his lip when he’s filling out reports reminds Phil of Frank, most notably when they’re undercover trying to take down a sex slave operation in the midwest. Clint is purposely trying to look small and unimposing as he’s dragged off to the side room and all Phil can see is Frank as he was thrown into the back of a car by his uncle. Phil has never felt the hot burn of rage like he does that day. He reminds himself that it’s Clint in there, not Frank, but it only serves to stoke the anger because Frank is gone and Clint is more important to Phil than he’s willing to admit, even to himself. 

The go signal has barely reached Phil’s ear before he’s shooting everyone between him and Clint. He settles for shooting out the slaver’s kneecaps instead of tearing him apart with his bare hands, an urge Phil confesses to Clint when they’re back in the motel room. His heart nearly breaks when he sees the new bruises visible on Clint’s arms and neck and it nearly stops when Clint asks Phil to touch him.

“Good,” Clint says firmly and Phil can see the trust and love he’s being offered. 

Phil pulls Clint gently into his arms and kisses him, vowing to cherish everything he’s being handed for as long as he’s given the chance.

~*~*~*~*~

They don’t put a name to it - both of them too accustomed to having goodness taken away - there is no need to. In every touch and every gesture, they cement the bond between them. Words, _the_ words, are unnecessary.

The physical side of their relationship becomes a wonderful addiction. Phil, who has never been overly reliant on regular sex, finds himself unable to get enough of sex with Clint Barton. The intimacy of the act - Clint’s touch and the ability to touch him in return - makes Phil keen with pleasure and Phil is amazed that he can elicit the same reaction from Clint. The first time Clint slides inside him with no barriers between them leaves Phil dizzy with want, unable to comprehend ever feeling that good again - until the next time and the time after that. Phil has never experienced anything like Clint and he never wants it to stop. 

Phil has concerns that this new connection will be a weakness, but it only makes them a more formidable team. They can read each other's reactions with the slightest change in posture or tone of voice. When Phil and Clint get the rare opportunity to fight side-by-side in the field, they are unstoppable. 

It's this dependability in their partnership that has Fury sending Clint to New Mexico after Phil and Phil to Pegasus after Clint. It’s their connection that lets Phil see the fear in Clint’s eyes as they look down from his perch at the Tesseract. 

“We’re not giving that thing enough respect,” Clint says with a frown. “It has the power to destroy us all.”

A chill runs through Phil at Clint’s words. He’s learned by now not to discount the archer’s instincts. 

“Whatever happens,” Phil responds, leaning his shoulder against Clint’s, “we’ll face it together.”

But they are not together when the time comes.

~*~*~*~*~

Rage burns like a white-hot poker in his gut as Phil watches the video of Loki taking Clint’s free will away, of Loki taking Clint away from Phil. He bottles it up and buries it deep to use later, focusing on the task of bringing together the Avengers because they are the only ones who can bring Hawkeye back. Only Natasha can see the fire simmering in the back of Phil’s eyes and nods approvingly in response.

In the end, the rage makes Phil reckless and he suddenly understands Clint’s blind determination to keep Phil safe in the field. He gets a moment of satisfaction as the Destroyer gun blasts the irritating god through the wall before the true extent of what he’s done sinks in. He’s failed.

Phil prods Nick to pull the Avengers together in the hope that they can accomplish what Phil has not. They need to bring Clint back - back to the safety of SHIELD, if not back to Phil. He leans his head against the wall and says a silent apology to Clint as darkness closes in around him.


	5. What you don't know can heal you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’ve never believed in fate or destiny,” Clint says. “But, until recently, I didn’t believe in magic either.” 
> 
> “Destiny,” Phil agrees and they both hear the chord of truth in the simple word.

Phil opens his eyes and sees Clint. For a fear-filled moment, he thinks that they’ve both died and Clint is welcoming him to the afterlife. Then the pain hits just as Phil is noticing that Clint is covered in cuts and bruises and looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks. Phil is happier than he imagined possible.

As soon as he’s relieved of the breathing tube, Phil proposes, ignoring the fact that all of the Avengers and several senior SHIELD agents are gathered in his hospital room. Clint just stares at him in open-mouthed shock until Natasha pokes him in the side.

“Yes,” Clint chokes out. “I love you. Yes, I’ll marry you.”

A cheer goes up and the room erupts in raucous, joyous conversation until the head nurse finally shoos everyone out, except his new fiance. Clint takes Phil’s hand with a happy smile and Phil is glad to see the haunted look in Clint's eyes disappear for a few minutes. 

“I love you,” Phil says, voice rough with disuse, the words needing to be said after what they’ve just experienced.

~*~*~*~*~

Recovery is slow for them both. The procedure that saved Phil’s life doesn’t save him from weeks in the hospital and months of recuperation, followed by more months of physical therapy. Clint's own internal struggles are less visible, but no less difficult or important. At no point does their love or devotion to each other waver.

"Fury has me re-signing a bunch of paperwork," Clint mentions one night at the dinner table - one of the first meals Phil hasn't needed to have in a bed. "Guess some clerk got ahead of himself and actually declared you dead."

Phil manages not to wince and makes a mental note to thank Pepper for her referral to the therapist Clint has been seeing. A few weeks ago, any mention of Phil's near-death would have led to hours of introspective silence. 

"Did you know you were never listed as my handler?" Clint continues. 

"I've been trying to tell you that for _years_ Clint," Phil reminds him. "You're the one who insisted on continuing to refer to me as your handler."

"I guess I thought you were just trying to build up my confidence," Clint says with a shrug. 

"You have never needed me or anyone else to boost your self confidence," Phil responds and places his hand over Clint's to soften his words. "And I've never lied to you, even on something as small as that."

Clint nods, but Phil can't help noticing the small shadow that flashes across his fiance's eyes. He doesn't press the issue, confident that Clint will talk to Phil when he's ready and not before.

A few days later, when physical therapy has left Phil barely able to sit through dinner and remain upright, Clint suggests a game of truth poker. It’s a game they invented on long ops when it became clear that small facts about their lives held a much higher value than money or exposed skin. Phil recognizes the ploy for what it is - an attempt at normalcy despite Phil’s limited range of movement and fatigue.

“Standard stakes?” Clint asks, expertly shuffling the cards in his hands before dealing them out. The archer ignores Phil’s frustrated scowl and continues to shuffle the cards nonchalantly until Phil finally huffs and nods. 

“Why did you start collecting Captain America cards?” Clint asks after he wins the first hand.

“My first boyfriend loved Captain America and argued well in his favor over Superman,” Phil responds, unable to stop himself from smiling at the memory before he sobers. “He...died and the cards help me keep his memory alive. I don’t think he had any family, so I like knowing there’s someone who still remembers him.”

Clint’s hands fumble uncharacteristically as he deals the next hand, winning it as easily as he had the first. 

“Why do you like listening to string quartets so much?”

“I used to play the cello until I graduated high school,” Phil answers and hands his cards back, starting to get a little concerned and a lot confused.

“I know you’re cheating,” Phil concludes when Clint wins the third hand.

“Yeah, sorry,” Clint admits. “Uh...I can tell you a truth instead,” he offers, biting his lip and ducking his head. 

Phil, thoughts already turned to the past because of Clint’s questions, can’t help thinking how much the mannerism looks like something Frank would do. Phil tells himself he’s just being nostalgic - for every way that the archer’s kindness and gentle nature remind him of Frank, there are a million other things that make him purely Clint. 

“I used to play the violin,” Clint says softly and Phil sucks in a sharp breath. “Up until I lost my violin when I was sixteen.”

“It’s not...you’re not...this can’t be possible,” Phil stutters out, cards forgotten on the bedspread in front of him. “They told me you were dead.”

“Barney pulled me out of the river,” Clint explains. “I must have hit my head. I didn’t die, but I didn’t remember either. Not until Loki. Whatever he did unlocked something...we...I’ve been piecing together with the therapist.”

“Francis. Clinton Francis Barton. Frank,” Phil says breathlessly. In hindsight, it’s a connection he should have easily made. 

“Why wasn’t your name Coulson?” Clint asks.

“Casper was my stepfather’s name. He adopted me before my mom died and I hated him for it,” Phil recalls. “I changed it back to Coulson as soon as I turned eighteen, just before I joined the Army.”

“I remember that. You went through with you plans,” Clint says softly and Phil suddenly understands his hesitation, why Clint didn’t come to him with this information immediately.

“I remembered you,” Phil assures Clint, grabbing his hands and making him drop the rest of the cards. Clint looks into Phil’s eyes tentatively. “I remembered you,” Phil repeats, “ _too much_. For the first few years, I saw you everywhere. I would catch a glimpse of blonde hair or a broad shoulder and think it was you, only to be disappointed again and again. It was driving me crazy and I eventually taught myself to stop looking. I told myself you couldn’t be you, but I think I knew...somehow, my heart I knew it was you.”

Clint smiles then, open and happy and a little awed. “I think I knew too. I didn’t know that I should remember, but I did.”

“Come up here,” Phil requests and Clint gently slides onto the bed next to him, maneuvering them around until Phil is leaning against his side with Clint’s arm around him.

“I’m still having difficulty believing this is real,” Phil says. “I’ve always wondered. Why were you there? I overheard part of the argument with your uncle.”

“That wasn’t my uncle, that was Trick. Remember all those get-rich-quick schemes I told you about? The ones my cousin and brother were always in the middle of when I was a kid?” Clint asks and waits for Phil to nod. Of the few stories that Clint has told of his childhood, the more colorful ones always involved his relatives’ failed attempts at one random scheme or another. Phil has always suspected that Clint kept the less legal stories untold. 

“Trick and Barney needed a way into Osborn’s,” Clint continues. “I don’t know why, I didn’t ask, but they offered me a chance to go to a real school and I couldn’t pass up the chance.”

“I’d never seen anyone so excited about math or essays or pop quizzes,” Phil recounts. “You were pretty adorable.”

Clint shifts restlessly next to him and Phil doesn’t have to look over to know that he’s blushing. 

“I think I fell in love with you the first time I heard you play for Mr. Bixby. I still have it - your violin,” Phil confesses and Clint startles, pulling away to look him in shock. “It’s in storage with my cello. I couldn’t...it was all I had left of you.”

Clint pulls him in for a gentle kiss and Phil sighs, remembering similar kisses they shared in the quiet darkness of their room during that one, glorious week. The memories, once painful, now make Phil smile happily as Clint pulls away.

“I’ve never believed in fate or destiny,” Clint says. “But, until recently, I didn’t believe in magic either.” 

“Destiny,” Phil agrees and they both hear the chord of truth in the simple word.

~*~*~*~*~

Clint steps out of the car and can’t do anything but stare up at the building until Phil walks around and stands next to him.

“Come on,” Phil prods, handing Clint the battered violin case. 

They make their way upstairs and Clint wishes he remembered more about his first visit here. He'd resisted at first - Phil's suggestion to look for Deborah and Mike - but finding them married to each other and still living in the same apartment had felt like another twist of fate. 

Clint takes a deep breath when they reach the correct door. Phil places a warm, supportive hand on Clint's lower back as he clutches the violin case tight in one hand and raises the other to knock. The door opens to reveal a woman that is unmistakably Deborah, the gray in her hair only adding to the sense of comfort she still exudes. 

"Hello...I...um...not sure if you remember me, but --" Clint starts to stammer out and then he's being pulled into Deborah's embrace before he can say any more. 

"Oh Clint!" Deborah interrupts. "We could never forget you."

Clint sinks into Deborah’s hug, looking up at a noise from further into the apartment and sees Mike standing a few feet away. He's not sure what reaction to expect from the retired police officer, but it's not for him to stride over and wrap his arms around his wife and a complete stranger. Deborah laughs as Mike gives them a huge squeeze and Clint can't keep his own bubble of laughter from escaping as they break apart. They each take a step back and Mike gives Clint a considering look, leaving him to wonder if former officer is looking for signs of that lost little boy from the bodega.

“We’ve been watching the news footage,” Mike says, surprising Clint again. “You look better.”

“I am better,” Clint responds honestly, reaching back to grab Phil’s hand and pull him forward. “Mike, Deborah, I’d like to you to meet my husband Phil. I... _we_ wanted to thank you.”

“What for?” Deborah asks and Clint can’t find the words for a moment.

How do you explain that, in doing what came naturally to them, they had lent a hand to fate? That in showing Clint their kindness and generosity, he learned his own self worth and it made him strive to be a better person in return. That, if not for their guidance, he would never have found the love of his life - not once, but twice. That in saving one small boy, they had helped save the world. 

“For _everything_.”

_fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tropes included in this fic: kidfic, au: band, presumed dead, road trip, poker/strip poker
> 
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